


where we had thought to find

by ohdeariemegoodness



Series: peaceful means [1]
Category: Transformers Generation One
Genre: Other, Plug and Play, Post-War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-10
Updated: 2018-06-10
Packaged: 2019-05-20 16:16:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,332
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14897852
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ohdeariemegoodness/pseuds/ohdeariemegoodness
Summary: “He’s not a slave, Optimus.  I gave him to Soundwave.  In fact, I’ve essentially rewarded him for trying to kill me.  He’ll be running around throwing paint everywhere and blasting nonsense out of his speakers like Soundwave’s other little terrors soon enough.”Notably, Soundwave doesn’t argue with this assessment at all.





	where we had thought to find

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [And I Alone Have Escaped To Tell You](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12794250) by [astolat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/astolat/pseuds/astolat). 



 “And where we had thought to find an abomination, we shall find a god; where we had thought to slay another, we shall slay ourselves; where we had thought to travel outward, we shall come to the center of our own existence; where we had thought to be alone, we shall be with all the world.”

-Joseph Campbell, _The Hero with a Thousand Faces_

* * *

 

Jazz wakes up on the floor of the ruined communications center, which is still smoking.  He can’t move any of his limbs, but unfortunately, he can definitely still feel them.  Megatron and Optimus are both standing over him arguing.  Jazz wants to see their faces, but he’s too busy staring directly down the barrel of Megatron’s fusion cannon.  He can’t tell who else is in the room.

“You can’t possibly expect me to leave him alive after this,” Megatron is saying.  “He’s destroyed my entire communications center, it’ll take us weeks to get it back up and running.  And those explosives were set off directly under my feet.  You can’t pretend he wasn’t trying to kill me.”

Megatron is, in fact, fairly singed.  Jazz notes with satisfaction that some of his leg plating has actually been blown right off.           

“I’m not saying that at all,” Optimus says, voice tight.  “But you knew there would be an adjustment period.  This isn’t easy for them to understand.  Please, Megatron.” 

Jazz turns his head to look at him, gritting his jaw against the pain of that small movement.  Optimus’s face is openly pleading, without even the dignity of his battlemask to cover it.  Jazz tries to speak up, to tell him not to bother; whatever Megatron would take from him in exchange for Jazz’s life, it’s not worth it.  Prowl would agree.  But all that comes out is a groan. 

“No,” Megatron decides anyway.  His cannon starts powering up, and Jazz sees Optimus try to go for it, but Ultra Magnus and Cyclonus are there in an instant. Ultra Magnus looks grimly determined as he drags him back; he won’t let Optimus kill himself over Jazz or anyone, no matter what kind of heartbreaking faces he’s making. 

Cyclonus, holding Optimus from the other side, is just there for Megatron.  Jazz wishes more than anything that he could go back and stop that mech from being built; he’s the entire reason the Autobots ended up in this situation in the first place.    

“Megatron, suggestion,” Soundwave interrupts.

Megatron pauses, and the ominous whining from the cannon cuts off.  “Yes?” he asks, optical ridges raised.  His cannon is still aimed straight at Jazz’s head.

“Compromise: give Jazz to Soundwave.  Threat level reduced significantly by increased direct supervision.  Non-lethal punishment will decrease distress of Optimus Prime.”   

Megatron hums thoughtfully, fusion cannon lowering to point at the ground. Optimus quits trying to escape Cyclonus and Ultra Magnus’s hold, looking shocked.

“Very well,” he decides.  “I suppose it is your communications center that he ruined, after all.  He’s yours, Soundwave.  Keep him in line.  And you,” he whirls on Jazz, “would do well to keep in mind that you are far from integral to the cause.  I won’t be so merciful again, Prime’s delicate feelings or no.”

“What do you mean?” Optimus asks.  “You’re just…giving him to Soundwave? For what?”

“That’s up to Soundwave,” Megatron tells him.

“The agreement was that my people would have equal positions in your society, Megatron, not that they would be—gifted to your officers!”

“Well, maybe you should’ve thought about that before one of them tried to blow Megatron up,” Starscream says, apparently oblivious to the utter hypocrisy of that statement. 

Optimus keeps going, but Jazz is distracted by the sudden agonizing pain of Soundwave picking him up by his armpits, knocking loose plating against half-destroyed circuitry.  Soundwave holds Jazz awkwardly away from his body, looking at him with his head tilted quizzically, like he isn’t quite sure what to do with him now that he has him. 

“I notice you’ve never volunteered to take _Starscream_ ,” Megatron says dryly, as Soundwave decides on slinging Jazz under one arm, balanced against his side.  Jazz locks his jaw, refusing to cry out when the wound stretching across the entire center of his body comes in contact with Soundwave’s armor. 

“Hey!” Starscream protests.       

“Starscream: Megatron’s problem,” Soundwave says.  It’s more sass than Jazz has ever heard from him; he almost laughs, but the excruciating pain turns it into another groan.  Starscream glares at Soundwave from behind Megatron’s back. 

Megatron laughs.  He pounds Soundwave on the shoulder a couple of times, jostling Jazz around painfully.   “Very true, old friend, very true,” he says.  

“Why are you doing this?” Optimus says, still held back by Cyclonus and Ultra Magnus.  “You could at least give him a trial, Megatron.  I _know_ you have a justice system in place.”

“ _I’m_ the justice system,” Megatron says.  “We don’t play Autobot games here.  If I want someone dead, I kill them, and that’s the end of it.  We don’t bother arguing over whether they _deserve_ it, like they’re any less dead just because a group of us voted on killing them first.”

“Jury trials aren’t about—voting on if someone dies or not,” Optimus protests.  Ultra Magnus is gritting his teeth, obviously holding himself back from jumping in.  Jazz isn’t much of an Ultra Magnus fan, but even he can admit that there’s a time and place for regulation—the justice system, for example. 

Starscream snorts, a loud crackling noise like cheap bass.  “No, they aren’t, are they,” he says. “Just more Autobot posturing, as if the decision isn't already made.”

“I believe Jazz will benefit from Soundwave’s care,” Cyclonus interjects, moving a hand to Optimus’s shoulder.  He’s taller than Megatron, but still manages to seem like he’s looking up at his leader. “His personnel records indicate he performs best when allowed to work creatively under structured supervision.” 

“I don’t think that our Glorious Leader is worried about whether _the Autobot_ will benefit,” Starscream sneers. 

Jazz wriggles ineffectively, trying to take some pressure off the gaping wound that takes up most of his body.  It feels like someone’s got a heated knife in his spinal struts, or maybe like someone’s throwing parts of him into a smelter while they’re still connected to his central nervous system.  He can’t even enjoy the sniping; he’s barely conscious. 

There’s the low buzz of a secured commlink, and Megatron waves lazily at Soundwave.  “Yes, dismissed.”

Soundwave nods at him and walks out without another word, taking Jazz straight to the infirmary.  Jazz has never been in the infirmary on this base before, and he stares in horror at the gory pile of internal weaponry, left out on a table in the middle of the room.  It’s _Optimus’s_ weaponry—Jazz would recognize those blades anywhere.  

“Initiate repairs,” Soundwave tells Hook, dumping Jazz on a medical table.  “Soundwave, requires access to cranial chamber during or immediately following repairs.”

Jazz’s entire system falls back into combat mode instantly, internal weaponry rocketing to full power and his tactical overlay helpfully pointing out targets.  He isn’t afraid at all; every drop of energy in his body is going to combat processes, nothing left over even for self-repair, much less emotional routines.  But his power levels are already too low, and Hook easily avoids his flailing, reaching around for the medical port on the back of Jazz’s neck.   

 

Jazz wakes knowing that it’s already too late—whatever Soundwave wanted with his brain, it’s been done.  A quick systems diagnostic reveals that all of his damaged plating has been replaced, and his circuitry and internal wiring repaired.  His energy levels are at 11% and slowly increasing, an energon drip hooked up directly to his tank.

With no immediately bodily needs to devote resources to, Jazz’s systems swirl straight into a complete panic—he can’t even start processing outside sensory input.  He can feel himself venting too quickly, his internal temperature shooting well above recommended levels, a combination of insufficient airflow and every system operating on high alert.  His threat-response routine is identifying enemies in every direction.

A solid whack to his chest knocks him out of it, forcing him back into combat mode to deal with the threat.  Surprisingly, Jazz finds that his internal weaponry hasn’t been removed or even disabled—which he realizes, with a sinking feeling in his gut, is not a good sign.  There’s no telling what Soundwave has done to him.

“Chill out,” comes from somewhere below him.  With effort, Jazz gets on his side and looks down.  It’s just one of the cassettes—Rumble. 

“You better lie down, dude.  You have like one astroliter in you, you couldn’t even fight a squishy right now.  That was a really dumb plan, by the way.”

“What?” Jazz manages.  He manually starts a complete systems check, starting with a core inventory, and he moves the results into real-time frontal processing.

“Your plan!  Did you really think no one’s tried to blow up Megatron before?  We all thought he was gonna slag you for real!”

Soundwave walks in before Jazz can respond, Frenzy bouncing up and down at his side.  Ratchet follows after, looking cross—the usual, for him.  He scurries over and starts scanning without so much as a hello.   

Frenzy whispers something to Rumble.  They both start giggling, but quiet down when Soundwave gives them a look.    

“Jazz,” Soundwave greets him.  “Query: condition acceptable?”

“I’m fine,” Jazz says, sitting up, but Ratchet scowls.

“You are not fine,” he says, turning up Jazz’s energon drip.  “Soundwave, his diagnostics are all incredibly high.  He needs a temporary pain suppressant, and he needs to fill up completely once he’s off this drip.”

“Pain relief authorized,” Soundwave says.  “Energon will be provided.” 

Ratchet gets to it, and Jazz can’t wait another second.  His systems check is still running, but nothing’s popping up.    

“What did you do to me?” he asks Soundwave. As far as Jazz can tell, there aren’t any foreign routines running in his head—to be expected, since you really have to be conscious for that to work—but that isn’t the only way to control someone.  There are any number of hardware modifications and neural blocks that have the same impact, and those _don’t_ require a conscious subject. 

“Tracking chip installed in cranial unit,” Soundwave says. 

“What?” Ratchet yells.  “Where? Why didn’t you mention this?”  He forces Jazz to lay back down, pulling a scanner out of subspace, this one much larger than the one already in his hand.  

“Ratchet did not ask.”

“I shouldn’t have needed to!  You should’ve called for me as soon as Jazz was injured!  I’m significantly more experienced at operating on Autobot body types and brain configurations.  I didn’t agree to join this miserable operation so someone else could work on _my_ patients. Who knows what Hook—” he cuts off, staring at his scanner.  The anger drops right off his face.

Ratchet whirls on Soundwave, optics wide. “Did you install this?” 

Soundwave nods. 

“It’s attached directly to his core!” he cries.  “What were you thinking?  It’s a miracle Jazz is still functioning!”

“No it’s not!” Frenzy yells.  “Soundwave knows what he’s doing!”

“Risk of deactivation minimal,” Soundwave agrees.  “Soundwave, experienced with micro-surgery, modification of core.”  He looks down at Rumble and Frenzy, ignoring Ratchet’s sputtering. “Recreational time authorized until next duty cycle.  Reminder: do not engage Autobots.”

“Yes!” Frenzy fist pumps. “Thanks, Boss!”

“Yeah, thanks!” Rumble says.  “C’mon Frenzy, let’s go dump—uh, hang out with Skywarp.”

The two of them take off.  Jazz is still reeling.  A tracking chip is one thing, but core-attached?

“Is that it?” Jazz asks.  “The tracking chip?”

“Yes,” Ratchet confirms.  “I’m not seeing anything else on the scan.  Not that this isn’t bad enough,” he adds, grimly.

“Why do I still have my weaponry?” Jazz asks, still deeply suspicious. 

“Jazz, prefers dismemberment?”

“Obviously not!” Ratchet yells.

The panic is starting to wear off.  Jazz purposefully avoids looking at Optimus’s internals, still sitting out in the middle of the room, and focuses on the here and now.  Soundwave could do anything to him.  _“He’s yours,”_ Megatron had said.  

“I just wanna know the plan,” Jazz says, “Since apparently I belong to you now.  Are you gonna drag me back to your room and have your wicked way with me?  Keep me as a decorative centerpiece?”    

Soundwave places a proprietary hand on Jazz’s chest panels.  “Jazz, direct report to Soundwave.  Agreement with Optimus Prime: all Autobots given positions that reflect skills.” 

“What about Prowl?” Jazz asks, before he can stop himself.  It's one thing to go out in a blaze of glory, a clean cut; it's another thing to be alive and dangled in front of him.  Prowl isn’t going to know how to handle it, and Jazz isn’t sorry for taking the shot at Megatron, but he is sorry about that. 

“Supervised interactions with Autobot Prowl will be permitted,” Soundwave assures him.  He looks back at Ratchet.  “Jazz, released from medical care?” 

Ratchet looks suspicious.  “He needs to fuel up completely, and then he needs a defrag and a complete rest cycle before anything else.”

Soundwave nods, and Ratchet removes the energon line.  He gives Jazz’s arm a supportive squeeze, looking like he wants to say something, but his eyes dart to Soundwave and he stays silent.  Jazz pats him on the hand. 

“Don’t worry about me,” he tells him, and pushes himself off the berth.  Whatever Soundwave is planning for Jazz, there isn’t much Ratchet can do about it.

Soundwave motions for Jazz to follow as he leaves the room, and Jazz trails behind, energy levels still low.  They make it to Soundwave’s quarters without any significant incident, although Wildrider and Drag Strip catcall at Jazz in the hallway.

Jazz doesn’t usually worry about how much smaller he is than other mechs—around other Autobots, it never mattered, and it had always been an advantage for surveillance work.  Now, alone with Soundwave in his quarters, without even the cassettes around, he can’t stop noticing that his head only comes up to Soundwave’s hip, can’t stop seeing how huge Soundwave’s hands are.  He’d always thought of them as battlefield rivals, him and Blaster facing down Soundwave as equals, but the truth of it feels different now.

Soundwave waves one of those massive hands over Jazz’s body, scanning, and then walks over to the wall.  He has his own energon dispenser, an almost unimaginable luxury.  On the Ark, even Optimus hadn’t had his own.  He’d refueled in the mess with everyone else.

Soundwave collects two cubes and sets one down on the floor.  There aren’t any tables in the room to drink at. 

“Refuel,” he commands.

Jazz does as ordered.  There’s exactly enough energon to refuel to capacity. When he finishes, Soundwave waves him over.  Jazz walks over slowly, even without the excuse of low energon; now, he guesses, is when the ball is going to drop. 

Soundwave stares at him, holding his own cube of energon.  A siphoning tube is attached to it from his side.  After a moment, the tube retracts.

“Sit,” Soundwave says, patting the ground beside him. 

Jazz does so, and Soundwave opens up a panel on his forearm, releasing a cable.  “Open port.”

Jazz rears back.  He didn’t expect—he didn’t really think that this is what Soundwave would want from him. 

“You want to interface?” he chokes out.  He pushes down the blind instinct to run.  There’s no sense in it, with the tracking chip, and Jazz has nowhere to go, anyway.  All of his allies are just as trapped as he is.   

Soundwave doesn’t respond, just waits. 

“Soundwave,” Jazz tries.  “You know about…me and Prowl.  I don’t want—I don’t interface with anybody else.” 

“Interface limited,” Soundwave tells him, showing him the cable he plans to use, its clearly modified connector surrounded by protective housing.  It looks like a built-in sanitizing unit, which would restrict the connection significantly more than any normal interface.

“Why not just hook me up to your usual set-up?” Jazz questions, calming slightly.  Interrogation, he can handle.   

“Deep system scan unnecessary.  Modified interface minimally invasive, less painful.  Additional objective: Jazz, afraid of Soundwave.  Interface will ease distress.” 

Jazz vents loudly. He wants to deny being afraid, but they would both know it isn’t true.  And if he digs his heels in, Soundwave could just make him.  He opens a port.

Soundwave doesn’t open a port of his own, just plugs right in, and Jazz finds himself leaning into Soundwave’s side as his processor struggles to make room for a second presence alongside his own.  It does hurt, a little; Jazz keeps instinctively trying to complete the connection and then getting slapped with a manual override by Soundwave’s sanitizing unit.  But the sensation is nothing like a usual interface.  There’s no ebb and flow of access, no pleasure circuitry being activated or even touched.  Soundwave isn’t rifling through his processes or pushing for lower-level access.  He’s just—there. 

Jazz drifts for a little while, Soundwave one vast sea of unshakeable presence around him.  He’s only vaguely aware of Soundwave moving him into his lap, pressing his head against the transparisteel of his chest compartment.  Jazz’s emotional subsystem finally quits spawning new stress routines, settling down in the face of Soundwave’s solid calm.   

Eventually, Soundwave starts pulling things out of Jazz, the whole godawful day, the weeks of careful planning and uncertainty and the final last-minute decision to plant the explosive charges in the communications center. 

When it had become finally, heartbreakingly obvious that the war wasn’t one they were going to win, between Cyclonus and the constant influx of newly awakened Decepticon warriors, Optimus had called everyone back to Earth.   He’d already tried to work out a treaty during the fight against Unicron, and now they all knew why it hadn’t worked: the Decepticons had taken Unicron’s vast supply of energon and woken Cybertron up. 

They’d all known that it was the end, but at least—at least they were all together.  When the Decepticons finally showed up, they were all ready to fight one last time.  But instead, Optimus went off alone with Megatron and his officers.    

Optimus came back and assembled everyone out in front of the Ark.  He’d cancelled all their duty cycles, recalled every patrol, didn’t even leave anyone inside to monitor the security cameras.  

“We’re going home,” he told them all, gravely.

“Are we surrendering?” Bumblebee asked, appalled. 

“No.” Optimus was quiet for a long time, but no one else spoke.  Finally, he reset his vocalizer.  “We’re joining the Decepticons.”

Optimus hadn’t been able to answer most of their questions, had only assured them that Earth would be left in peace, that no one who joined would be killed or kept prisoner, and that everyone would have the option of choosing a non-combatant position.  Jazz didn’t know the details of whatever devil’s bargain Optimus had made with Megatron to get those promises out of him—no one did.  But Megatron had kept those promises, and even Optimus had seemed alright, if a little subdued.  Even once Jazz started preparing the explosives, he hadn’t been sure that he was going to set them off. He’d started to think that maybe things were working out, even if not in the way they’d all hoped.    

But when Jazz had gone looking for Optimus this morning, to confess what he’d been planning, he’d found him on Megatron’s recharge slab, alone, hunched over himself and crying quietly into his hands.  His color was chipped a little on his wrists.  And Jazz had known he was going to do it, that he at least had to try.

After a little while, Soundwave guides Jazz through a defrag, and then into a rest cycle.  He never breaks the connection.

 

Jazz holds out for a little while, but he's _dying_ , he’s so bored.  He lays down on the washrack floor and groans.  “Come on, Soundwave,” he whines at the camera in the corner.  “I promise I’ll behave, just give me literally anything else to do, _please._ ”

The camera doesn’t respond.  Jazz throws a cleaning rag at it and misses wildly.  He’s been cooped up in Soundwave’s quarters for a week.  The only people he’s even seen other than Soundwave are Rumble and Frenzy, which is not better than being alone, and once Ravage came in, sniffed at him, and then immediately left.  Other than that, nothing.  Even Buzzsaw and Laserbeak are apparently out on surveillance.

When Jazz complained about it, Soundwave removed the cleaning drone from the washrack and assigned him a recurring duty cycle cleaning in its place.  The task shows up on the base schedule and everything.  Jazz flops over on his side and starts half-heartedly scrubbing the floor with a brush.  The washrack was completely clean when he started, because there had been a _cleaning drone_ in it, but if Jazz doesn’t at least pretend to work the entire time, then Soundwave adds hours to the maintenance cycle until he starts working again.     

Jazz starts playing sad human music from his speakers, scrubbing along slowly.  He stares up solemnly at the camera.  He’s already got Soundwave’s number; it took Jazz about five hours in Soundwave’s company to figure out how his little troupe of minions turned out so wild. 

After a little while of that, Soundwave’s voice comes over the intercom.  “Report to Rec Room B. Escort:  Rumble.”  There’s a little ping from the base computer, and Jazz gets a notification that the location for his duty cycle has changed.

“Yes!  Thank you thank you thank you.”  Jazz folds his hands piously in front of him, trying to look appropriately grateful.  Soundwave doesn’t respond, but that’s to be expected.  He’s not much of a talker.

After a few minutes, Rumble comes bustling in, covered in paint and bouncing his arm thrusters up and down. “C’mon, Jazz, we gotta go clean the rec!”

“More cleaning?” Something interesting was too much to hope for, apparently, although really, Jazz should have known.  He gets up anyway, relishing any chance to get out of Soundwave’s quarters. 

“Yeah, me and Frenzy and Skywarp got paint everywhere. So now we gotta clean it up.”         

They walk out of Soundwave’s quarters to find Cyclonus waiting.   Jazz immediately tenses up.  He’s not in the mood for this. 

“You looking for the big guy?” Rumble asks.  “He’s still fixin’ up the communications center.  Jazz really blew that place up, it was awesome!”  

Cyclonus raises an eyebrow, and Rumble backtracks.

“Uh, I mean, bad Jazz, you shouldn’t be blowin’ stuff up, nobody does that.  Except all of us do that, we’re Decepticons, that’s our whole _job,_ and anyway it was huge, he almost blew a _hole_ in Megatron’s leg _—_ ” Cyclonus’s brow raises higher and higher, and Rumble cuts off.  Jazz laughs, glad to have at least one member in his fan club, even if it’s Rumble. 

“I have come to escort the two of you to Recreation Room B,” Cyclonus tells them.    

Jazz glares at him.  “Aren’t you a little important to be on babysittin’ duty?” 

“I volunteered for this task,” Cyclonus assures him. “There are no unimportant duties in the service of our cause.” He indicates the spot beside him.  “Come and walk beside me, Jazz.  Rumble, lead the way.”

Jazz does as he’s told.  It’s stuff like this that makes Cyclonus so insufferable.  He’s so—so smug and self-righteous, all talk about duty and the cause, when really what he means is that he loves fighting and killing and winning, just like the rest of them.   _Unicron_ made him, after all. 

Cyclonus looks down at him.  “What duties has Soundwave assigned you, Jazz?” 

“Got me on cleaning duty.  In his washrack.”

“He doesn’t have a cleaning drone?” Cyclonus asks.

Jazz folds his arms across his chest, annoyed. “He took it out.”

“Ah.” Wisely, Cyclonus doesn’t comment on that.  “I am certain that with time and dedication you will become a valued member of his team, Jazz.  Your previous commanders speak highly of you, and I myself have seen your ingenuity in the field.”

Jazz doesn’t have anything to say to that, and Cyclonus doesn’t push, just walks him the rest of the way in silence.  But when they get to the rec room, Cyclonus pauses in the entrance and waves Rumble inside.  Rumble heads on in, and Cyclonus leans down, placing a hand on Jazz’s shoulder. 

“What Optimus Prime has asked of you is no easy thing,” he says.  “Autobots were not built to be warriors, but you have made yourselves strong in service of your cause.  Now, you have been asked to serve alongside those you have only known as enemies.”

Jazz stares at the floor, unresponsive.

“This is no easy task for Decepticons, and harder still for Autobots.” He squeezes Jazz’s shoulder, then releases him, straightening up.  “I would not have denied you a warrior’s death.  But wiser minds than ours have found this path instead, and it is our duty to see it succeed.”

Jazz turns to stare at Cyclonus instead of the floor, but Cyclonus is already ushering him inside the room, apparently done talking. 

“Skywarp!” Cyclonus calls.  “Here is Jazz, to help you with your current task.  Once you have finished, you, Rumble and Frenzy must remain here with him until Soundwave arrives.  Do you understand?”

“Yeah, I gotcha, Cyclonus,” Skywarp says.  “Hand the little Autobot over!” 

Jazz walks over to Skywarp without protest, still reeling a bit as Cyclonus leaves.

“What’s your problem?” Skywarp asks him.

“I think Cyclonus just tried to cheer me up,” Jazz says, slowly, “by telling me he wanted to kill me.”

“Yep, that’s Cyclonus for ya, alright,” Frenzy says.  Skywarp nods in sympathy. 

Rumble hands him a bucket of solvent and a wire brush.  “Try not to think about anything he says too hard,” he advises.  “It’ll just overclock your processor.”

Jazz decides that’s as good advice as any and gets to work scrubbing paint off the floor.  There really is paint everywhere, like Rumble said.  “What happened in here?” he asks.  “Were you guys just throwing paint?”

“Yep!” Frenzy says, putting his hands on his hips and looking around proudly.  “We had a paint fight, it was awesome.” 

“Except now we have to clean it up _by hand_ ,” Skywarp says, waving a brush at him, “when you little glitches are the ones who started throwing paint everywhere in the first place!”

Rumble throws his rag at Skywarp.  “You threw more paint than either of us!”

“I did not!”

Frenzy jumps in.  “Did too!”

“Did not!”

Jazz can’t resist; he takes a potshot at Skywarp with a wire brush, and it bounces right off of Skywarp’s head.  This, obviously, leads to Jazz getting a bucket of solvent dumped over his own head, and the other two join in enthusiastically, tossing cleaning supplies around indiscriminately.

Thundercracker comes in as Skywarp is trying to shake two giggling cassettes off his back.  Rumble sees Thundercracker and drops the bucket he’s holding, which slops solvent all over Jazz before it clangs onto the floor.  They’re all covered in streaks of half-dissolved paint.

“You guys can’t even wipe up paint without supervision?”

Skywarp cackles.  He’s covered in more stuff than the rest of them combined.  “I’m the supervision!”

“Yeah, I can tell.” Thundercracker says.  “C’mon, get up, you guys better clean this mess up before Soundwave gets here.”

Jazz uses a rag to wipe solvent off his face.  The other three pick up their own cleaning supplies, grumbling. 

“I don’t know how you guys get anything done around here at all,” Jazz says.  It was actually a constant question for most of the war.  The Decepticons were an army, and they _did_ get things done, sometimes incredibly quickly.  But it seemed like every time Jazz’s team managed to get any sort of surveillance on the base, _this_ was the kind of thing they found.   

“That’s why Skywarp can’t be in charge of anything,” Frenzy says, sagely. 

Under Thundercracker’s supervision, they spend the next little while actually cleaning, although the Decepticons bicker the entire time.  It almost feels like being back on the Ark, maybe stuck cleaning with everyone else because he got caught racing in the halls, or because Wheeljack dismembered all the cleaning drones for experiments.  He keeps half-expecting Bumblebee or Prowl or Bluestreak to be there, and then remembering that they won’t be.  He doesn’t even know what duties they’ve been assigned—Soundwave has only given him access to his own schedule in the base computer. 

Blaster’s name catches his attention, and he tunes in to Rumble telling Skywarp about Blaster’s taste in human music. 

“You’ve been hanging out with Blaster?” Jazz asks, a little surprised.  He’d known that Blaster was spending time with Decepticons, like everyone, but he’d assumed it was all work-related.     

“Yeah, guess you were busy trying to kill Megatron, like you were somehow gonna have more luck with that than _Starscream_ , but the rest of us have been makin’ friends,” Rumble says.

“I thought all of you guys were losers, but turns out Blaster is really chill,” Frenzy agrees.  “We all said that this whole plan was stupid and you guys were all just a bunch of trash compactors and liars, but I guess some of you don’t completely suck.”

“Harsh,” Jazz says, sitting back. “That’s somethin’ coming from someone who’s been trying to kill _us_ for the last eight million years.”  It’s hard not to be angry just thinking about it.  If the Decepticons could make friends with Blaster in a little under a Cybertronian month—if they could just round up all the Autobots and bring them home just like that—

“At least we were just gonna kill you all and be done with it,” Thundercracker interjects.  “ _You_ were trying to go back to your palaces and throw us all right back into the pit!” 

Jazz doesn’t even know how to respond to that _utter slag._ “We’ve tried to open up peace talks with you wasteholes a thousand times!”   

“Ha!” Skywarp says.  “Whatever.  Megatron would’ve killed us all himself before he’d let you guys have us.”

Megatron kept the war going for eight million years, and he still wants war with the entire universe.  And now he has _Cyclonus_ , who won their never-ending war for him in a couple of years.  Megatron is never going to stop.  There's no one left to stop him. 

“Why are you even followin’ that guy?” Jazz asks.  “You just said it yourself, he’ll kill you all before he stops destroyin’ stuff.  Look at Cybertron, this whole planet is a pit!”

“We’re living a better life now than we ever were before the war,” Thundercracker says.  Skywarp nods emphatically.  “So what if Cybertron is a scrap heap now?  We were all living like that before.  At least now no one is _making us._ ”

“It’s not even gonna matter what Cyberton looks like anyway,” Rumble pipes up.  “We’re gonna own a thousand planets.”  He and Frenzy fist bump. 

“You’re just mad you guys lost,” Frenzy adds.

Jazz wishes Prowl were here; he probably wouldn’t know what to say, either, but at least Jazz wouldn’t have to deal with this by himself.  If the war was really about living in pits and Functionist scrap, it would’ve ended millions of years ago.  Megatron had destroyed their entire system of government, killed every last Functionist, had blown every palace and statue and Autobot relic to rubble.  He’d killed Sentinel Prime himself.  “I don’t even get where you guys are comin’ from,” Jazz tells them.  “You can’t act like you started this whole war about us when now you’re just gonna keep fightin’ and killin’ people on other planets.”

“We never said it was about you,” Skywarp says.  “We started the war for us!  You guys didn’t mind us fighting all the time when we were fighting to get stuff for Autobots to have.” 

“Well said, Skywarp,” Megatron booms from the doorway.  Soundwave, Starscream, and Optimus are all standing behind him.

“Ah!” Rumble nearly falls over.  “When did you guys even get here!”

Starscream snorts.  “Long enough to hear you bragging about owning a thousand planets, like that could ever happen.”

“I meant the Decepticons and you know it!  Anyway, _Soundwave_ could own a thousand planets. You wouldn’t know anything about it, you’ve never owned a planet in your life.” 

“Rumble, Frenzy, return,” Soundwave commands, and opens his chest compartment, interrupting Starscream before he can even get started.  The cassettes both run over and transform, and Soundwave closes them in.      

Jazz wonders what that’s like—he doesn’t know if they link up every time, or how much the cassettes are consciously aware of when they’re in there.  For a long time, the Autobots thought Soundwave’s cassettes were actually drones, or at least that Laserbeak and Buzzsaw and Ravage were all drones and Rumble and Frenzy were reformatted mechs.  It seemed like the only explanation for their little set up, a bunch of tiny mechs who all relied on Soundwave’s spark and frame just to survive.

Starscream huffs.  “Whatever.  Thundercracker, Skywarp, you’re coming with me.  You morons aren’t skipping training _this_ time.” 

The three of them take off. Thundercracker and Skywarp have apparently dodged training four times in a row.  Jazz knows because he can hear Starscream’s ear-splitting voice for literally a full minute after he’s left the room.  Even Megatron winces a little at the final shriek before it trails off.  

“Jazz,” Soundwave beckons. 

Jazz puts down his cleaning supplies and walks over to Soundwave.  He tries to make eye contact with Optimus, but Optimus isn’t having it.  He’s staring meaningfully at Megatron. 

“What did I tell you?” Megatron says, sounding exasperated. “He’s clearly fine.”

“He’s not clearly fine.  You made him a slave, Megatron.” 

“He’s not a slave, Optimus.  I gave him to Soundwave.  In fact, I’ve essentially rewarded him for trying to kill me.  He’ll be running around throwing paint everywhere and blasting nonsense out of his speakers like Soundwave’s other little terrors soon enough.”

Notably, Soundwave doesn’t argue with this assessment at all.

“I’m right here, ya know,” Jazz says.

Optimus lights up a little on infrared.  “My apologies, Jazz.   I’m afraid I’ve been bothering Megatron about this quite a bit.”  He crouches down to take Jazz’s hands in his own.  “Are you truly unharmed?”

“Yeah,” Jazz tells him.  Like Jazz, Optimus is obviously aware that there’s no sense in asking for privacy, not with Soundwave around.  They never quite managed to pin down Soundwave’s range during the war, but he’s certainly capable of covering the entire base.    

“Ratchet tells me that Soundwave surgically attached a tracking chip to your core,” Optimus says, not appeased. 

“He did,” Jazz confirms.  “But I’m still up and kickin’.  To be real, I’m more worried about you than anything.  You haven’t been lookin’ so hot.”

“I am adjusting,” Optimus admits.  He smiles wryly at Jazz.  “I’m not much of a Decepticon.”

Megatron laughs, harsh and metallic.  “That you aren’t, Prime.”

Most of them aren’t.  Some Autobots are doing okay; the Dinobots seem to be enjoying themselves, and easy-going mechs like First Aid and Beachcomber are already more or less liked by everyone.  But they’re all still serving as support staff for the endless Decepticon war on everything.   

“You guys are fightin’ just to be fightin’,” Jazz tells him.  “Maybe if you had some sort of reason it’d be easier to get us on board.”

“Jazz.” Optimus squeezes his hands, gently. 

Jazz pulls away.  “You could’ve just left us alone,” he tells Megatron.  “You an’ Cyclonus got the reactors goin’, and you knew that was it for us.  You already won.”

Megatron’s optics narrow, brightening.  “Be grateful I let you live at all,” he growls.  “I intended to rid us of the Autobot plague _permanently_.”

Soundwave intervenes.  “Cybertronian Civil War, over now,” he says.  “Agreement reached between Optimus Prime, Megatron.  Jazz must adjust to current situation.”

Jazz scowls and looks away.  Soundwave drags him closer, so that he’s standing right next to Soundwave’s leg. 

“Enough of this,” Megatron says.  “Soundwave, call for Cyclonus.”

Jazz turns to Optimus.  He doesn’t want to ask, but he has to.  “Are you sure this was the right idea?” he asks.  “Better than just fightin’ and gettin’ it over with?”

“I certainly hope so,” Optimus says, and it isn’t long before Cyclonus shows up to take him away. 

Jazz and Soundwave end up following Megatron to the empty third-level observation room.  There are two massive chairs placed in the corner, and Megatron takes one of them, popping his cannon off to rest on the floor beside him. 

Soundwave doesn’t sit down.  He releases a cable from his wrist and holds it out expectantly, looking right at Jazz. 

“Now?” Jazz asks, eyeing Megatron.

Soundwave nods.  Megatron seems unfazed. 

A bit awkwardly, Jazz opens a port on his left side, situated about halfway down his torso.  It’s a little presumptuous to assume he’s going to be held again, but he wants to be comfortable, if that’s how it’s going to go.    

Sure enough, Soundwave picks Jazz up before he even plugs in, sitting down in the other chair with Jazz already pressed against the subspace compartment in his chest.  Jazz can’t see Rumble and Frenzy inside, but he knows they’re there. 

Soundwave presses inside, and Jazz doesn’t fight it, a little more prepared for the one-way interface this time.  He leans into Soundwave and tries to relax, letting Soundwave rifle through his memories without resistance.  It’s still overwhelming, Soundwave’s presence huge and incomprehensible from Jazz’s side of the connection. 

After a little while, Soundwave retreats, but doesn’t cut the connection completely. He doesn’t let Jazz up, either.

“You’re getting along, then,” Megatron says. 

“Affirmative.”

When Soundwave speaks, it has an odd feeling to it, almost like an echo.  Jazz realizes belatedly that Soundwave has actually granted him a tiny taste of neural access—the connection is highly restricted, tightly controlled on Soundwave’s end, but it’s enough that Jazz can _feel_ what Soundwave is saying. 

“Megatron, ‘getting along’ with Optimus Prime,” Soundwave says.         

“You could call it that,” Megatron says, looking frustrated.  “I don’t know what I was thinking when I agreed to this.”

Jazz goes to protest, but Soundwave sends a wave of warm sensory input rushing through his systems, leaving Jazz feeling like he’s just sunk into a hot oil bath.  He wants to complain, but he also doesn’t want to move.  

“Megatron, thinking of Cybertronian future,” Soundwave says.  “Also: respect for Optimus Prime, increased in joint battle against Unicron.” 

Megatron looks away, optics flashing, and Soundwave moves closer to him, holding Jazz carefully so he doesn’t fall out of Soundwave’s lap.  He doesn’t say anything, just sits close.  After a little while, Megatron seems to calm down.  

“Get rid of the Autobot,” he says, motioning at Jazz.  Soundwave nods, but doesn’t move, staying plugged up to Jazz.  Jazz looks up at Soundwave, confused, but Soundwave doesn’t say anything to him either. 

Eventually, Ravage comes slinking into the room, and Jazz realizes what they were waiting on.  Soundwave disconnects from Jazz to receive Ravage’s report, and Jazz rolls off of him and onto the ground.  It feels ridiculously cold now that Jazz isn’t being blasted with both Soundwave’s physical heat output and his fake sensory routines.  He lays there for a little bit, adjusting to being the only person in his head again.

Ravage sends a querying ping on an unsecured channel, drawing Jazz into the conversation, and Soundwave nods.  “Affirmative.  Jazz will accompany Ravage on surveillance.”

This is the first Jazz is hearing of that, and he perks up at the potential of non-cleaning freedom. Ravage, though, projects a map of the base, then zooms in on a set of vents to display the dimensions.  The meaning is clear; there is no way Jazz is going to be able to squeeze in.  

“I don’t think I’m gonna fit,” Jazz says. 

Soundwave tilts his head a little at Jazz.  “Jazz, desires reformat into smaller frame?”

“No!” Jazz yelps.  “I mean, nice of you to offer and all, but I’m pretty used to this body, if you know what I mean.” 

Soundwave doesn’t press, just turns back to Ravage.  “Take alternate route.”

Ravage slinks off without arguing, and Jazz follows.  He can hear Megatron getting up, too, and glances behind to see Megatron pacing back and forth while Soundwave watches, silent.

 

Surveillance with Ravage, as it turns out, is _boring,_ although not as boring as being a cleaning drone, so Jazz isn’t complaining.  Much.  After his good behavior following Ravage around the first time, Jazz’s life has fallen into a more interesting routine: patrols with Ravage, maintenance duty with Rumble or Frenzy, training cycles on his own with Laserbeak or Buzzsaw watching and sending him unhelpful pings. 

Right now, Jazz is scrunched into an air vent above the medbay, one of the few vents he can actually fit into, if barely.  He’s been listening to Hook and Ratchet arguing for hours while Ravage finishes his patrol.  Sadly, it’s almost nice; this is the closest he’s been to another Autobot in days.  He still hasn’t been allowed to see Prowl, or anyone besides the one conversation with Optimus.   

“I can’t even deal with you right now,” Ratchet says.  “Is that someone’s _arm_?”

It’s the first interesting thing Jazz has heard all day.  He tries to look, but he can’t see anything; the dual angles of the vent are designed to prevent that kind of surveillance. 

“Well, he’s not using it anymore, is he?” Hook snipes.  “I’m pulling out the internal weaponry.  Waste not, want not, Ratchet.”

“That’s disgusting,” Ratchet says.  “You’re disgusting.  Are you going to use this as decoration, too, like the weaponry you pulled out of _Optimus_ , you—you—” he cuts off, vocalizer shorting out, and Jazz knows exactly what face he’s making right now.  He’d seen it when they first surrendered; Ratchet with white-ringed optics and clenched fists, on the edge of hysteria.    

“Autobots are such drama queens,” Hook says.  “Are you going to pretend like you’d have let _Megatron_ keep his weaponry if you’d captured _him_?”  

“You can disable weapons without _removing_ them,” Ratchet snarls.  “And I wouldn’t have his body parts left out like some sort of trophy.” 

“They’re out here where I can see them so they don’t get ‘misplaced’ by some enterprising Autobot,” Hook tells him.  Jazz can _hear_ the air quotes in his voice.  “Or worse, used for someone’s homegrown upgrades and damaged beyond repair.  You can be sure that Megatron is going to want them put back, eventually.” 

“Optimus is never going to fight for you,” Ratchet says, lowly. 

Hook just snorts, and Jazz can hear him going about his business, the tell-tale little metallic scraping noises as he works on the arm.  Jazz wants to go out there and comfort Ratchet, but if he’s seen during surveillance, he doesn’t think Soundwave will let him out on patrols anymore.  Hook would definitely tell. 

“It’s like you Autobots actually _believe_ your own propaganda,” Hook says after a bit, once another Decepticon has come in for maintenance.  One of the smaller ones—Barricade.

“It isn’t propaganda,” Ratchet says.  Barricade and Hook both laugh.

“Sure it isn’t,” Hook says.  “I know _you_ know better than that.  Are you going to pretend you weren’t involved with that monstrosity, Omega Supreme?” 

“That never should have happened,” Ratchet says, sounding wounded.  “No Autobot alive would ever condone what happened to him.”

“And yet I notice you never fixed it, did you?  Funny how all your Autobot experiments with neural control turn out sad and unfixable when they work in _your_ favor.  The rest of them just get smelted.  Although I guess I shouldn’t complain—that’s how we got Soundwave and Shockwave, after all.” 

“Maybe you should complain,” Barricade cuts in.  “Shockwave is how we got Acid Storm, and that guy is getting crazier every day.  I think he tried to _eat_ Roller Force two cycles ago.  Either that or just carry him around.”

Jazz tunes out, caught on Hook’s comment about Soundwave.  He knows a little about Soundwave’s past, mostly just that he’d been a gladiator before the war.  The Senate really _was_ involved in some nasty stuff then.  It could have been anything.  Jazz worked in “cultural investigations,” but he was pretty low on the totem pole.  He never knew what happened to the intel he brought back, or what the Senate was doing with it, if it made it that far. 

He listens to Hook and Ratchet bicker a little more once Barricade leaves, but they’re on safer topics—where to store this or that, whether or not to waste resources on regular preventative maintenance.   Eventually, he hears Hook step out, warning Ratchet not to mess with anything while he’s gone.  Jazz decides to risk it and pops out of the ceiling. 

Ratchet screeches and his arm rears back, wrench in hand and ready to throw. 

“Whoa, Ratchet!” Jazz automatically dodges, even though the wrench hasn’t been thrown yet. 

“I’m not removing the tracker, so don’t bother asking,” Ratchet tells him, lowering the wrench a little too slowly for Jazz’s tastes. 

“Nah, I was just tryin’ to check on you,” Jazz says.  “But really?”

“I wouldn’t have even known it was a mod if I didn’t already know your systems by heart,” Ratchet says, grimly.  “There’s no removing it without killing you.”  

That’s not ideal, but it doesn’t matter; Jazz already knows there’s nowhere else to go.  “It’s okay, Ratch.  I’m doin’ alright, livin’ in the lap of luxury and all that.  You know Soundwave’s got an energon dispenser in his _room_?”  

Ratchet’s optics go hilariously wide, flaring in outrage.  “There’s not even an energon dispenser in the infirmary!  I have to requisition cubes from the computer and then send someone to pick them up!” 

“You’re missin’ out,” Jazz tells him.  “I feel like a Towers mech.  Except all this time I spend crunched up in air vents eavesdroppin’ on the medbay.”

“You heard all that, huh?” Ratchet asks.  They both look at Optimus’s internals, still spread out in the open.  Involuntarily, Jazz shudders a little.   They’ve been with the Decepticons for over a Cybetronian month; Megatron must’ve ordered the weaponry removed weeks ago at the least, but the weapons systems are still streaked with oil and lubricant.   Hook didn’t even clean them, just pulled them out. 

“Soundwave let me keep mine,” Jazz says.  “Not sure if I’m relieved or offended.” 

“ _Relieved_ ,” Ratchet says, pointedly.  “You’re lucky you’re still in one piece.”

“Eh,” Jazz waves him off.  He is lucky, really.  When he woke up he thought for sure that Soundwave had rewired his brain from the inside out.  But nothing major has been altered, as far as Jazz can tell; even his commlink is still up and running. 

Ratchet looks skeptical, but the sound of footsteps comes from outside the infirmary, and Jazz gestures to the ceiling.  “Better get back to work,” he says, gripping Ratchet’s hand and squeezing hard.  “Hang in there, Ratchet.” 

Ratchet squeezes back for a long moment.  When they hear Hook at the door, Jazz scurries back up into the vent without even an astrosecond to spare.

When Jazz gets back from patrol, he finds Soundwave sitting on the floor with a cube of energon, leaned up against his rest unit, the only serious piece of furniture in the room.  Soundwave’s gotten a rest unit for Jazz, too, but that’s a new and disconcerting addition—not that Jazz is complaining, since previously his options were Soundwave’s massive, overpowered berth, which would probably burn his circuits out, or the tiny cassette-sized microunits on the wall next to the washrack.  It’s a little unsettling, though, to realize that Soundwave is making a _place_ for him. 

Soundwave pauses with his siphoning tube halfway out, and indicates the energon dispenser, but Jazz waves him off and comes to stand beside him.  Jazz has been living here for weeks, and Soundwave _still_ hasn’t taken the mask off to drink. 

“You should really get some chairs in here, man,” Jazz says.  “And maybe a table.  I sat at a table for the first time since I moved in today and I almost couldn’t remember how to do it.”

“Location?”

“Went to the mess with Ravage.  He didn’t tell you?”  Jazz has been assuming that the cassettes report his every move to Soundwave.  Soundwave certainly _seems_ interested in every little thing he does. 

“Report due after authorized recreation cycle, if no urgent intelligence acquired,” Soundwave explains.  “Chair, table, can be requisitioned.  Requirement: continued good behavior.”

Jazz grins.  “You know I’m always good,” he says. 

Soundwave looks unimpressed.  Jazz isn’t sure how he conveys that much emotion with a mask and a visor on. 

“So, this has been killin’ me for eight million years,” Jazz says, deciding to just go for it.  “What do you look like under there?”

Even on the occasions they’d gotten surveillance inside the Nemesis, they’d never managed to get a shot of Soundwave’s face.  He never even took the mask and visor off for maintenance, as far as Jazz could tell.

“Under faceplate?” Soundwave questions.

“Yes! Do I get to see your face now that I’m part of your little crew? Or is that a lifetime membership perk only?”

Soundwave tilts his head a little.  “Jazz, sees Soundwave’s face now.” 

“No, under the mask,” Jazz argues.

“Affirmative,” Soundwave tells him.

Jazz pouts, assuming that’s the end of it, but Soundwave brings his hand up to his mask, pulling the catch on the side to remove it.  Underneath, there’s—not a face.

Jazz stares at the exposed wiring.  It looks at first like Soundwave’s face has been blown clean off, but as he looks closer, he realizes that the wiring isn’t set up that way.  There aren’t any of the hook up points where face modules would usually attach, and there isn’t a space for a mouth at all, no exposed intake, not even any jaw servos. 

“Whoa!”  Jazz has to sit down.  “Did you have to have your whole head rebuilt?” Jazz asks.  It doesn’t seem possible to receive that kind of injury and survive, but Cybertronians are tough.  It isn’t over until the core is destroyed, even if facial expression modules and other core-attached equipment are blown to bits. 

Soundwave reattaches his faceplate.  “This facial configuration: original design.” 

Jazz had assumed that Soundwave was hiding behind a full-face mask and modulated voice.  It was hardly unheard of, especially in the surveillance field.   It hadn’t occurred to him to think that the Soundwave he met from across enemy lines was actually—just Soundwave. 

“Facial expression modules, vocalizer, deemed unnecessary for Soundwave’s original function.  Not required for completion of duties,” Soundwave explains. 

Jazz recoils.  It isn’t possible to spark a truly incomplete mech; without personality components, or an adequate processor, or sensory inputs, a cybernetic brain won’t even initialize.  But with enough energon and a prolonged manual sparking, some core-reactive parts can be skipped.  The thing about initializing that kind of mech is that it takes _a lot_ of power.  And even before the war, there weren’t a lot of mechs with the kind of credits and connections it took to get a mech made with no face and no vocalizer, and no emotional fins or core-attached lighting routines to make up for it. 

 “Who _built_ you?”

“Soundwave, created to serve Senate.  Function: integrated communications and surveillance hub capable of independent data analysis.”

Jazz turns away, sickened.  Of course he knows that kind of thing used to happen—just look at Shockwave.  His original alt was a _gun._ He hadn’t had himself rebuilt, like Megatron.  He’d been created as a weapon for someone else’s hands, and his designers hadn’t wasted resources giving him a mouth or core emotional routines.  But somehow, it’s worse knowing that it happened to Soundwave.  If the Senate had wanted a computer, a machine that wouldn’t talk back, they could have created one.  They could have paid other mechs to process the data, with non-sentient computers and AIs performing the never-ending task of listening and watching.

Soundwave waits a moment, but when Jazz doesn’t say anything else he goes back to refueling, unruffled.

 

The next night cycle—what they’re calling a night cycle, since they don’t actually have a sun yet—Jazz gets dragged up to the surface with Soundwave and his entire little crew.  It’s the first time he’s been on the surface since they got to Cybertron.  Even surrounded by ruins and trash, it’s beautiful, the stars incredibly bright without the light pollution Jazz has gotten used to.  Jazz loves Earth, he really does, but it was no replacement for Cybertron—all rocks and dirt and fantastic organic beauty.  There was nothing there that could replace the soft cold glow of metallic particles in the air. 

“Why are we up here, boss?” Frenzy asks.  Buzzsaw tilts his head inquiringly from Soundwave’s shoulder.

Soundwave doesn’t say anything, but he doesn’t have to.  Megatron comes climbing out, with Starscream and Thundercracker and Cyclonus close behind him, and a whole line of Autobots and Decepticons behind them.  The Seekers all transform and take off immediately, whooping and twirling, and Megatron stops to squeeze Soundwave’s shoulder in greeting on his way past. 

Jazz bounces impatiently on his heels, waving at all the Autobots as they come past.   He’s been doing alright on his own, like any no-contact mission, but now that he actually has a chance to see Prowl he can barely wait.  He gets plenty of grins and thumbs up and semi-concerned looks; a few of them glance nervously at Soundwave before cautiously waving back. 

Prowl is one of the last ones to come trickling out, bringing up the rear with Optimus and Ultra Magnus.  Jazz waves frantically.  They make eye contact, and Prowl marches directly over, ditching the other two without so much as a goodbye.  Jazz gets ready to throw himself into to Prowl’s arms, then stares incredulously as Prowl—walks right past him.

“Soundwave,” Prowl says.  “Greetings.  Do I have your permission to speak with Jazz?”

“Request granted,” Soundwave says, before Jazz has to intervene.  He turns to Jazz.  “Requirement: remain within two hundred meters of Soundwave.”

Jazz leaps onto Prowl immediately, bowling him over and sending them both to the ground.  Prowl yelps in protest, but he holds Jazz just as tightly. 

“Optimus Prime said you were in respectable condition, but I’m glad to see it for myself,” Prowl murmurs.  “Never do something like that again, Jazz.” 

“What, try to assassinate Megatron?” 

Prowl plants a hand over Jazz’s mouthplates, appalled.  “Jazz!” 

Jazz licks his hand, but before he can do anything else, everyone gets quiet.  Beside them, Soundwave is standing silently with his whole little crew gathered around him.  Jazz looks in the direction Soundwave is staring to see Megatron facing the crowd, the Seekers all landing behind him. 

Prowl lets Jazz’s face go and sits back up.  Jazz burrows in, and Prowl fits an arm around his shoulders. 

“Decepticons,” Megatron says.  He makes eye contact with Soundwave, and then looks back around at everyone.  “Cybertronians.”   He waits a bit, until it’s dead silent, except for the quiet hum of Cybertron’s reactors beneath them.    

“It’s been a long war,” Megatron says.  “And it’s going to be a long clean-up, too.  There’s not much left standing, and although our planet is awake again, it’s still dark.”

Jazz always forgets what kind of speaker Megatron is; when he’s not just roaring out orders to kill Jazz’s friends, it’s hard _not_ to listen.  Before the war, everything that came out of Megatron’s vocalizer was straight-up contraband.  His speeches used to get scrubbed as soon as they happened, long bursts of static on newsfeeds and broadcast streams.  But it was a losing battle from the start.     

“For millions of years, this planet was a monument to decadence and decay—Autobots living in comfort and wealth, while Decepticons got slagged in pits for Autobot entertainment, or crushed in mines digging up precious metals for Autobot palaces, or destroyed on other worlds fighting for energon that only Autobots would drink.” Megatron’s cannon is humming as he speaks, his optics flaring bright and red.  Everyone around Jazz is frozen, staring. 

“But look around you,” Megatron commands.  “Nothing is left standing.  Everything they built has been reduced to slag; there are no more Autobot statues and spires to tower above us!  Everything we’ve fought for is ours, and if we have to build it all from the beginning, then so be it.

“Now, we fight for _ourselves_.  Now, we are making ready for a new and glorious empire—not another false Golden Age, but an Age of _Decepticons_!” 

The Decepticons _roar_ , moving together like one massive being.  There’s the flash and sizzle of energy weapons firing randomly into the air, and the familiar sound of Decepticon brawling; the Stunticons, all together in front of Jazz, are pounding on each other, grinning and laughing wildly. 

The other Autobots are mostly quiet, or looking away.  Jazz looks over at Optimus, trying to get a read on him, but he’s turned so that no one can see his face.  Megatron lets the celebration go on for a little while before he raises a hand for silence.  Everyone starts settling down, except for Wildrider, who doesn’t stop whirling around wildly until Motormaster drags him over and sits on him. 

“But tonight,” Megatron announces, “we can forget about the long road ahead of us.  Tonight, we celebrate a hard-won victory—and we remember the comrades that didn’t make it this far.  Shockwave, if you’ll do the honors.”

Shockwave presses a button, and some of what Jazz had dismissed as insignificant surface trash folds away, revealing a massive titanium slab with names already etched into it, millions of them—and when he enables optical magnification, he sees not just Decepticon names—Straxus and Deathasaurus near the top, and Scorponok and Thunderwing, lost in the battle against Unicron, not long after—but _Autobot_ names: Cliffjumper, Impactor, even Sky Lynx _._ Optimus isn’t hiding his face anymore; he’s staring at Megatron, now, and lubricant is welling up around his optics.  Megatron is staring back, face unreadable.  

The “trash” continues to fold back, and it turns out that the slab is surrounded by stacks of energon.  All the Decepticons erupt into cheers again, and even some of the Autobots join in this time. Megatron quits staring at Optimus and goes to take a cube.  That seems to be the cue for everyone to start rushing towards the energon, and Jazz jumps in without hesitation.  Even Soundwave is going for it. 

Once they have a decent amount of energon between them, Prowl and Jazz go sit with Optimus, Prowl being careful to keep to the radius that’s been set.   Two hundred meters isn’t much, and especially not when it’s Soundwave.  As usual, the others give him a wide berth, so there’s no one between Jazz and Soundwave except cassettes, and even that doesn’t last long.  Rumble and Frenzy take off with cubes half as large as they are, jeering playfully at Jazz as they rush by, and Jazz watches Laserbeak and Buzzsaw fly off into the crowd, Laserbeak ending perched on Megatron’s shoulder.  Only Ravage stays with Soundwave, who gives him a cube. 

Jazz scooches over until he’s pressed right up against Prowl, determined to enjoy what little slack he’s been given.  

“I’m glad to see you reunited,” Optimus says, smiling softly.  He’s the only mech without a cube.  Jazz has never seen him overenergize, not once during the long eight million years of war. 

“Me too,” Jazz tells him, and takes a giant swig from his own cube. 

The party rages on around them, and once they’re all suitably drunk, Jazz hooks into Prowl and does his best to blow his circuits out while Optimus turns away politely.  Prowl’s mind is all straight lines and concerted worry, and Jazz falls right into it.  It feels amazing to have a fully connected interface, one that just feels good, no uncomfortable one-sided prying.  There _is_ a lot of prying, but Jazz gives it up easily, letting Prowl have anything that he wants, even as he pushes his way through all Prowl’s tender emotional routines and his pleasure circuitry, everything untouched, except by Jazz.

Afterwards, when Jazz is still spread out flat on his back, recovering, he catches Prowl and Optimus leaned in together and gossiping, Prowl’s _port cover_ still hanging open and everything. 

“Excuse me,” Jazz says, from his place on the ground, which is very comfortable, thank you.

They both turn to look at him. 

“Cover up your port, Prowl,” Jazz gets out.

Prowl snaps the port closed so fast Jazz can barely see it happen.  He laughs, and Prowl covers the closed port with his hand, glowing white-hot with embarrassment on infrared.

Optimus leans in, looking serious.  “Jazz, Prowl tells me that Soundwave has been in your systems.”

“We’ve been interfacin’, kinda,” Jazz tells him, “Maybe better to say he’s been interfacin’ me.” 

Prowl’s face is blank, and Jazz reaches for his hand.  “Don’t worry,” he says.  “No one blows my circuits but you, babe.”

“I didn’t realize he would be so cruel,” Optimus says, his face tight and miserable.  “Jazz, I’m so sorry.  I don’t know if I can stop him, but I’ll try to reason with him.  Surely he’s seen enough by now.”

Something about that sets off alarm bells in Jazz’s brain, and he tries to sit up.  Optimus helps him get upright. 

“It’s not like that, O.P.,” Jazz tells him. “I’m alright.  Gettin’ a little worried that you aren’t, though.”

He looks around for Soundwave, suddenly worried, but Soundwave isn’t too far.  He’s got Buzzsaw back on his shoulder, and _Starscream_ is sitting with him.  Jazz resets his optics a couple of times to be sure, then files that one away for later, more sober investigation. 

Optimus doesn’t answer, and he just changes the subject when Jazz presses for more.   Eventually, Megatron comes over and collects him, but Optimus is all smiles at Megatron, like nothing is wrong.  The problem is that Optimus is a good actor, and Jazz doesn’t know if he’s pretending, or if the problem is—something else.

Prowl pulls Jazz back into his arms, and Jazz leans back and lets himself be petted, staring thoughtfully at Soundwave. Jazz has figured out by now that any time he interacts with a mech that isn’t Soundwave or a cassette, he’s expected to open up a port and let Soundwave in.   Tonight is unlikely to be an exception—but Soundwave is surrounded by empty cubes, clearly overenergized, and Jazz feels an idea forming.

“Sorry, Prowl,” he mutters, “but it’s gotta be done.” 

“Sorry for what?” Prowl asks.

Jazz pats his arm.  “Nothin’,” he says.  “Just somethin’ I gotta do.  Lay down, I wanna cuddle.” 

Later that night, once they’re back in Soundwave’s quarters, and Soundwave has all his passed-out cassettes in their berths, Jazz puts his plan into motion. 

A little unsteadily, he climbs onto Soundwave and opens up a port.  Soundwave plugs in without hesitation.  This time, though, Jazz doesn’t just lay back and let Soundwave at it.  His systems are still running hot from Prowl, and Jazz focuses on that feeling, his pleasure circuitry lighting up with the memory of it.

“Let’s have a real interface for once,” Jazz says.  “I wanna feel you, too.”

Soundwave shakes his head.  “Negative.  Interface for pleasure, not desired.” 

Even with the tiny trickle of access that Jazz has right now, he can tell that Soundwave means it.  That puts a bit of a wrench in his plans, but Jazz has always been good at improvising.  He quits thinking about the overload, and thinks about the intimacy instead, that first fall into Prowl’s mind, like dropping out of the desert and into rushing water. 

Soundwave isn’t convinced, and Jazz squirms at the uncomfortable sensation of Soundwave going through his memories with a fine-toothed comb, replaying the conversation with Optimus over and over.  He finds the moment when Jazz decides to investigate, and Jazz slumps, knowing the jig is up.

“Jazz: concerned for Optimus Prime,” Soundwave says. 

“I know you know what’s going on!” Jazz says, frustrated.  In a fit of pique, he tries to yank Soundwave’s cable out of his port, but Soundwave’s massive hand covers his own, stopping him.   Jazz kicks and squirms, fighting to get away.  He’s suddenly overwhelmed by the powerlessness of it: he doesn’t know what Megatron is doing to Optimus, and even if he did know, he can’t _do_ anything about it. He’s constantly watched, he’s not allowed out on his own, Soundwave plugs in and pulls everything out of him as soon as he gets a breath to himself, he just saw Prowl for the first time in a _month_ and it wasn’t even for a full cycle, and who even knows what’s happening to Optimus _right now_ —

Soundwave grips Jazz hard by the back of the neck, forcing him to be still or have his vocalizer crushed.  Jazz goes limp, panting hard into Soundwave’s chest, his vents squealing.  His fingers dig into Soundwave’s side, but Soundwave doesn’t flinch.     

“Distress unnecessary,” Soundwave says, after a moment.  “Megatron, not harming Optimus Prime.”

Jazz’s combat system kicks in, he’s so angry, but it’s useless.  The extra charge in his systems has his tactical display highlighting the berth as an enemy.  “Frag you!”  Jazz says, struggling again.  “I know you saw it the first time you were diggin’ around in my brain.” 

“Megatron, not the cause.  Soundwave: will show you.”

Soundwave lets go of Jazz’s neck and opens a port on his arm.  Jazz takes advantage of the sudden opening, pushing himself in before Soundwave can change his mind. 

Even with a complete connection, interfacing with Soundwave is nothing like any interface Jazz has ever had before.   Soundwave’s perception is incredibly fragmented, making it almost impossible for Jazz to navigate.  It’s like Soundwave is processing his inputs individually, instead of letting his system integrate them into a cohesive whole—which, Jazz realizes incredulously, is _exactly_ what’s happening.  And his capacity is outrageous.  Jazz can sense thousands of inputs, more than even Blaster can process. 

Jazz doesn’t understand why anyone would want to live like this.  It’s no wonder Soundwave doesn’t want to interface for pleasure.  The force it would take to overwhelm his conscious perception and push him into overload would have to be incredibly painful. 

“Is your reality matrix damaged or something?” he asks. Maybe Soundwave _can’t_ integrate.

Jazz scowls at the sudden feeling of warm amusement coming through the connection.   

“Negative.  Non-integrated sensory input, avoids lost detail in low-level processing.” 

Low-level processing is unconscious for a reason; all of this input would be beyond distracting even if Jazz was operating at full capacity, and right now he is _not._  He shakes his head, trying to clear the dizzy feeling. 

 “You said you’d show me what happened,” Jazz says.

Soundwave opens up further, and Jazz is overwhelmed by the sudden unavoidable force of Soundwave’s devotion, his unflinching loyalty not just to the Decepticon cause, but to Megatron _._ Megatron, who dragged Soundwave out of the Pits, who destroyed his former masters and everything they’d built.  Megatron, who Soundwave _loves._  It’s—Jazz has never imagined that anyone could feel that way about _Megatron._

“That’s not an excuse,” Jazz tells him.  “He shouldn’t be hurting Optimus.  He should have left us alone in the first place!  We could’ve been happy, on Earth.” 

Even as he says it, Jazz doesn’t know if it’s true; he loved Earth, but it isn’t _home._ But Cybertron isn’t really home either, not anymore.  

Soundwave’s hand strokes down his back, trying to be comforting, but Jazz can barely stand it.  

“Just show me what happened,” he says, miserably. 

As promised, Soundwave pulls Jazz into a memory, letting him feel things as they happened.  It’s hard to piece together the details—the way Soundwave experiences just walking into a room is confusing and disjointed—but Jazz gets the gist of it: Soundwave, tense and determined in Megatron’s quarters, and Optimus cornered on the berth, but not fighting.  Soundwave is _sure_ that Optimus is hiding something, playing for time until he can start the war back up again, and Soundwave has to find out what his plan is before it _works._   

Jazz jerks in horror as Soundwave shoves a cable into Optimus.  Everything gets clearer as Soundwave pushes his way in— _Optimus’s_ processor is perfectly capable of integrating, forcing Jazz to experience the violation first-hand.  Jazz cries out as Soundwave pushes his way into Optimus’s systems, making Optimus grant him complete neural access, then demanding access to lower level components, even giving himself control over Optimus’s autonomic functions. 

It’s nothing like the gentle interrogations Jazz has experienced; it’s nothing less than rape, worse because Soundwave is completely indifferent to the feeling, has no interest in pleasure or pain.  _This_ is the source of the telepathy rumors, Jazz realizes—who else could stand it?  Rape in exchange for information is just as painful and revealing to both parties.  If you torture someone to get their ports open, you have to feel it as soon as you get in.  But what Optimus is feeling doesn’t bother Soundwave, because—because he was _built_ for this.  The Senate hadn’t just wanted surveillance and analysis; they already had that.  What they’d wanted was a machine that could crack into another mech’s processor and rip everything out. 

Jazz can feel Optimus trying not to fight it, even as Soundwave drags his most painful moments to the surface: Optimus staring out at the ruins of Praxus, devastated, forcing himself not to clutch at Ultra Magnus; Optimus, much younger, pleading with Megatron over a pile of corpses; Optimus purging fuel as Ratchet details the permanent neural damage done to Omega Supreme, not by Decepticons, but by his own people.  Soundwave examines it all relentlessly, ignoring memories in search of _feeling,_ motivation.  Mercilessly, he pulls a deep, unending hopelessness out of Optimus’s mind, never shown to anyone, hidden even from Ratchet— 

The Autobots were never going to win the war, not until Megatron was dead, and every Decepticon along with him.  It wasn’t a future Optimus could bear, but his other option was—was giving up, was letting his people die so that the Decepticons could continue their unending war across the universe. Optimus _knew_ that the Decepticons had reasons. They were made for fighting, and for killing, and for the dangerous jobs and hard choices that Autobots didn’t want.  They were created for _war._ And there was never a place for them, not in Autobot society.  But all the reasons in the world weren’t enough for what they’d done, entire planets destroyed, countless civilians slaughtered without care or reason, Cybertron itself ruined and dead.   

A vicious sort of gladness pulses through the connection—Soundwave doesn’t care about civilians or alien planets.  Better to be dead than go back to that world.  Better Cybertron destroyed, than overrun by Autobots ever again.  Optimus takes that in, and curls up on the berth, breathing hard.

Soundwave pushes harder, looking for the trick, the lie.  But there isn’t anything to find besides Optimus’s final, desperate play, more of a hope than a plan—that the Autobots would make a place for themselves _here_ , in a world that isn’t meant for Autobots anymore. Soundwave pauses, letting that sink in, and Optimus offers up another, even more tentative dream: a vision of Cybertron rebuilt, not just for Decepticons, but for _Cybertronians_.  A vision of Megatron, living for the first time in a world where he doesn’t have to fight. 

Soundwave separates from Optimus, and they stare at each other for a moment before Optimus speaks.

“Did you find what you were looking for, Soundwave?”  His vocalizer sounds rough, uneven.  Jazz can’t tell for sure if it’s really fritzing, or if that’s just the way Soundwave is hearing it.

Soundwave nods.  He gets up and leaves the room without looking back, but Jazz can tell he’s still monitoring the feeds from Megatron’s room.  Even through the confusion of thousands of unintegrated inputs, Jazz knows what Soundwave is seeing, because he saw it himself: Optimus puts his hands over his face and sobs.

Jazz runs a hand over his own faceplate, jerking out of the immersive connection.  He can still feel Soundwave, but it’s a little more distant, easier to handle.  “Is that why you kept Megatron from shootin’ me?”

“Affirmative.  Integration of Autobots: tenuous.  Intervention warranted.” 

Jazz feels the truth of that through their connection; Soundwave would happily go to war again tomorrow, if it was needed.  He would keep fighting for another eight million years if he had to.  But he doesn’t _want_ to. 

Soundwave unplugs from Jazz, and Jazz pulls his cable out of Soundwave, too, closing the connection. 

“Recharge required,” Soundwave says. 

Jazz groans.  “I swear I’m gettin’ up in one astrominute,” he says, and promptly falls into a rest cycle himself.

 

He wakes up on the floor, and also in pain.   

“Ugh,” he gets out.

Rumble cackles, then cuts himself off.  “Ow,” he says.  “Noise still hurts.”

“These boosters suck,” Frenzy says. 

Jazz manages to online his optics, and from his place on the ground he can see all the cassettes slumped in a pile, also on the floor.  With a concerted effort, Jazz drags himself up and over to the energon dispenser, knowing from long experience that it’s worth it to fuel up as soon as possible.  He gets his energon and slumps against the wall with it. 

When Jazz is nearly finished with his cube, Soundwave comes in with Ratchet in tow.  Ratchet gives Jazz the boosters as grumpily as ever, a comforting routine they’ve gone through a thousand times.    

“Thanks, Ratchet,” Jazz says, sighing as the cool wash of the boosters loosens up his systems a little. 

“How come they work for _you_?” Frenzy grumbles from the floor. 

“I’m a lot bigger, so I get more,” Jazz tells him.  Frenzy sticks out his tongue. 

Ratchet snorts, crossing his arms.  “Jazz didn’t overenergize nearly as much as you did,” he says.  “You’re lucky you didn’t fry any circuits.”  He turns to Soundwave.  “Now that I’ve been dragged all the way up here to give _boosters,_ can I go back to my medbay and attend to some actual patients?”

“Affirmative,” Soundwave says, and Ratchet stomps right out. 

Jazz grins.  “Never change, Ratchet!” he calls as the door slides shut.

Soundwave sits down heavily, then seems to give up and just lay on the floor.  Slowly, the cassettes all get up from their pile and come over, clambering on top of him. 

“Not goin’ to work?” Jazz asks, although he’s in no condition to be working either.

“Surveillance reviewed,” Soundwave says.  “All other duty cycles cancelled.”

Lazily, Soundwave scratches under Buzzsaw’s wings, and Jazz is hit with feedback from last night.  “Hey,” he says, “I saw you an’ Screamer hanging out last night.  You guys friends now?”

Soundwave’s visor flashes, and Rumble and Frenzy both laugh from where they’re sprawled out on top of him.  “Soundwave, considered a ‘good listener’,” Soundwave explains. 

Jazz laughs, too.  It’s hard to argue with that.   Nobody talks for a little while, and eventually the door opens again, to reveal _Megatron._ No one gets up, not even Soundwave.  Rumble flops a hand at him in a half-hearted wave.  “Hey,” he mumbles. 

“Hey, indeed,” Megatron says, walking in and carefully lowering himself to the ground beside Soundwave.   He lays down, too, and Ravage leaves Soundwave to lie on his chest.  Jazz watches in disbelief as Megatron just—reaches up to scratch between Ravage’s shoulder blades. 

“Optimus is entirely too awake,” Megatron says.  “And _loud._ ”

Soundwave musters up the energy to pat Megatron on the arm sympathetically.  Jazz takes a sip from what’s left in his cube, staying quiet and unobtrusive against the wall.  He would’ve killed for this kind of surveillance opportunity during the war; now, it feels vaguely like watching a holodrama. 

Megatron and Soundwave both fall into rest cycles, their internal reactors clicking into the deep hum of recharge-mode.  Jazz gives it a little while, and when no one moves, he gets up and goes over to the door, which just—opens right up.  Feeling uncomfortably aware of the tracking chip attached to his core, Jazz steps out into the hallway.   

Jazz has been trapped, in this room, in this base, deep in the heart of enemy territory.  He hasn’t tried to leave because there’s nowhere to go, and because Soundwave can always find him.  He’s been stuck on a knife-edge, trying not to think about the paralyzing fear that any mistake he makes will be taken out on _Optimus._ But as he walks down the hallway, no one pops out to drag him back to Soundwave.  

Passed out and half-awake Decepticons litter the hallway, no one even pretending to be working.  Skywarp and Thundercracker are laid out in front of Starscream’s door; Skywarp gives him a little wave as he walks past, then barges right into Megatron’s quarters. 

Optimus is sitting with a datapad, working on something.  Unlike Soundwave, Megatron actually has chairs, and Jazz plops himself into the one beside Optimus. 

“Jazz,” Optimus says, sounding surprised.  “Soundwave let you out on your own?”

“Nah,” Jazz says.  “I’ve decided to start takin’ a little more initiative, if you know what I mean.”

“Good,” Optimus says, smiling, but his face quickly turns concerned.  “Are you certain that Soundwave won’t…” he trails off, apparently unable to say it. 

Jazz leans in close, grabbing one of Optimus’s hands in both of his own.  “I think we gotta clear somethin’ up, Optimus,” he says.  “Soundwave’s not doin’ that to me.  An’ I’m sorry he did that to you.”

_Soundwave_ certainly isn’t sorry.  Not about anything.  None of the Decepticons are, as far as Jazz can tell.  But they also aren’t—they aren’t just out there hurting people for the fun of it.  And for all of Megatron’s talk about glorious empires, the Decepticons haven’t gone out conquering yet, either. 

“I think we can make this work, O.P.,” Jazz tells him.  He thinks about Soundwave, not wanting to fight, and Skywarp saying, _we started the war for us_.  None of the Decepticons had really known peace before now.  But thanks to Optimus, they’re all getting a taste of it. 

Optimus smiles.  “I’m glad to hear that you think so, Jazz.  I’m doing my best to convince Megatron to explore some trade agreements, but I’m afraid I’ve scared him off already this morning.”

The Decepticons would have picked death over surrender, because—because they thought death w _as_ better than losing.  They’d started an eight-million-year war that destroyed their home planet and ninety-five percent of the population, not because they loved destruction—although some of them did—but because they’d rather die than live under Autobot rule. 

Jazz has been living under the alternative, and it’s not easy.  Optimus’s internals are still on display in the infirmary; Jazz has a tracking chip attached to his core that even Ratchet can’t get out of him.  Optimus is trying to sell Megatron on the validity of _trade agreements,_ instead of just busting in and taking what he wants.  But it’s not worse than dying. 

“He’s just sleepin’ off his hangover with Soundwave,” Jazz says.  “He’ll be back.” 

Jazz lets Optimus’s hand go and curls up in his chair, enjoying the feel of actual furniture for once.  His processor is still aching, and he’s sure to be in for it when Soundwave wakes up and realizes he’s missing.  But it’s impossible to be worked up about it; he’s home, on Cybertron, his friends still alive and all of them working on being happy, and the future—it doesn’t have to be bad. 

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first Transformers work, and more of an [astolat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/astolat/pseuds/astolat) fanfic than anything else. In [And I Alone Have Escaped To Tell You](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12794250), Megatron mentions Cyclonus winning the war for him, and I immediately wanted to see that. But I also really wanted the Autobots to live, so this is the story I ended up with. 
> 
> Thank you for reading, and I hope you enjoyed it! Feel free to leave feedback, which is obviously loved and appreciated in all its forms. :)


End file.
